How the Sphinx Lost its Nose

More untimely than death...    
      
Big brother smelled stinky when I opened his door.      
He's always been aloof, writing to deadline.      
He's always had takeout boxes peppered throughout his room.      
It couldn't be helped.      
But he has a good heart.      
       
Brother; he's a dandelion in place of the sun.      
The last bout of warm wind      
casts his petals across the setting west and spring into a wistful white.      
       
He's not moving though,      
and for all his running      
valiantly through thunderstorms with exceptional rhetorics — to boot —      
his quirky way,      
I think he's dead.      
       
I'm​ panicking.      
Yeah, actually dead.      
       
The ambulance lugs his hooded body.      
Mom screams and I hide in his room,      
racing incessantly through his phone for memories:      
the selfies with his aura,      
his posts with thoughtful sensibility.      
       
But what      
had his last thoughts uttered to the political world?      
       
He was      
into school girl cosplay      
and was an adamant lolicon:      
The screen plays the last movie of his rememberance.      
I wish he could pat my head more —      
like that actor pats his sister.      
And she doesn't know what bra to try on.      
       
Brother has a good heart.      
He'd laugh when I teased him      
(search history of male bondage)      
or      
when anyone teased him.      
       
He woke us up in the mornings and always trucked to the restroom,      
palms glistening soft a few times whenever I peeked early out my door.      
       
And I lie out in his bed to feel his hugs again —      
and dip my hand in a greasy patch.      
       
Brother washed his sheets every day like a housemaid.      
       
He has a good heart.      
       
And he'd sneak away cups of olive oil —      
like Grandma — for his Omega-3s.      
       
But he must have stressed a lot for his health.      
He has shedded hair prickling from his carpet.      
       
When my brother died, I kept his room      
exactly how I remember him in that day:      
peaking with shelves of his Renaissance drawings,      
the cup of extra virgin olive oil by the bed,      
and the poignant panties in a makeshift sculpture of one of my friends      
hanging in the closet,      
then the signed photograph in frame on the backside of a family portrait on his dresser      
of a Czech model titled "Only 18",      
more boldly feminist than an underbust top and denim thong.      
       
But Mom didn't like his Frozen collection.      
I told her that he liked Disney Princesses.      
Brother has a good heart.      
She told me there was something else.      
Though, his jewelrycase of chokers      
was all Victorian to me.      
       
The police had confiscated his phone for months of investigation,      
but the morgue had ruled a natural death in just days.    
       
When it was returned with frantic blush, I had traversed to 19      
and wasn't one of those school girls anymore.      
       
But I watched the same stimulating show across his fishy sheets as back then.      
And my brother felt warm on my cheeks      
through my soul.      
       
Mom torched the room though.      
She said it was accidental, but I watched her staring at the smoke,      
clinging to Big Brother's baby pillow      
and the certificate of his baptism.